


you're the tall kingdom i surround

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Bourne (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1642796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything he says has water under it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the tall kingdom i surround

**Author's Note:**

> (title and summary from The National's song "Brainy.")
> 
> Written for Belle

 

 

The entire continent is on fire, everything sticky and stagnant from the heat. She throws the windows of the hotel room open, tries to get coax the evening air in. Instead all Nicky gets is turning engines, doors slamming, the bustle of Munich in July. Strips of paint are slowly peeling from the whitewashed window frames, and she picks at them a little, watching the traffic below.

The door snicks shut, and she turns to see Jason, sweaty and mildly disheveled. He sets a black briefcase on the floor and peels out of his shirt as he steps into the bathroom, leaving it a dark puddle on the pale carpet. She hears the rush of the shower and exhales like she's been holding her breath for hours. Finally, he is back, and she is free for the first time in two days. Nicky doesn't run for the door, but it's a near thing, and she jumps down the stairs two at a time, eager to be under the sky.

She brings back dinner as the sun begins to sink in earnest, big sandwiches and two bottles of Perrier. He's still in a towel, sitting on the side of the bed and tapping at her laptop. She tosses one of the sandwiches and he catches it without looking up. "We're done," he murmurs, a dark sound in the shadows setting over the room. "I'm sending the report through now."

"You didn't have to -" she starts.

"I know how to file reports," he says, flicking his eyes up at her with something quieter than a smile. "I've done it thousands of times. I don't need a sidekick to do my paperwork."

He is kidding, maybe, as much as he ever does, but she bristles silently anyway. This op has been more complicated than usual, and she has been essential at moments. Between long stretches of silence she was his medic, his date, his lookout. But his supervisor, as well, watching him to soothe Conklin's nerves, reporting reassurances about his efficiency and obedience. She wants to say, _I am what stands between you and the day they realize how unstable you are._ She wants to say, _You need me more than you think,_ but she just sighs and heads for a shower of her own.

The water is heavy and cold, and she stands with her face turned into the spray until she's shivering. Finally, she steps out, wringing the water out of her hair. The mirror shows her paler than usual, a little tired, a little set around the mouth. She doesn't often get out of Paris, and she's never travelled with an agent before. There's something strangely exhausting about waiting on tenterhooks for a summons, a warning, a problem, with nothing to do in between besides play Solitaire.

Her hair is creased and tangled, still soaking wet. She lets it drip down her back, over her collarbone. The heat sweeps a new layer of sweat over her skin the second she steps back into the room. There's no way to escape its crushing pressure, and she is frustrated with it, with the futility of everything she does lately.

Jason's eyes track her across the room, sharp and silent. "Come here," he says, not quite a question, so she stops rummaging through her suitcase and perches on the edge of his bed. He snaps the computer shut and sets it aside, slowly, the careful movements of someone sure but unsure.

His palm is gentle, humid on the back of her neck. He smoothes his hand down the first few ridges of her spine, across the sweep of her shoulder, smearing the beads of water into smooth trails. He stops on her arm, gripping just a little, like she would escape, like she doesn't know better. He presses his lips to the vein on her neck, the corner of her jaw beneath her ear.

This isn't the first time. In Paris, with spring brightening a cold early morning, he knocked on her office door and then knocked everything from her desk to push her on top of it. They kissed fast and open-mouthed, her hands curled in the small of his back, legs wrapped around his waist, until their phones rang in tandem and he broke away, looking like he had just been shaken awake. He snapped open his phone and left as she fumbled on the floor for hers.

Every night this week she has thought about the warmth of his lips, while they fall asleep with the space between the beds insurmountable as the Atlantic. When she balanced in her three-inch heels and smiled graciously at the Iranian counsel, Jason tapped her elbow and she remembered the soft noise he made. Every time he looks too long and then away too quickly, she curls her fingernails into her palms to stop from reaching towards him, telling herself she knows that she shouldn't (really, not knowing if she should).

He works a hand into the mess of her hair, turning her towards him. His mouth is an inch from hers, and she feels the air float out of her as she tips her head up. She brushes a hand over his knee, playing with the edge of the towel; he pushes her down with his teeth against her lips, her throat.

She has never been afraid of him. She has been afraid for him, when she pressed her torn dress against the slash on his side, blood metallic under her fingernails. When she first heard the doors slamming shut inside him. When he looked at her and said, _Today I saw the picture of their daughter and I still pulled the trigger._

She lets the towel unfold onto the bed beneath her. The wind picks up at last, washing the room with rustling papers and the smell of ozone. He presses against her, rests his forehead against hers and rocks his hips a little, sensation dampened by the thick cotton. Her hands are open and easy as they stroke up his spine, down his sides. His eyes are bright in the dark.

The rain might make it here tonight after all.

 


End file.
